


For Want of a Bite

by WeOffendedShadows



Series: For Want of a Bite [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: AU fusion, Alternate Universe - Marvel Cinematic Universe Fusion, Anxiety, BAMF!MJ, DC Comics References, F/M, Gen, Gotham, Midtown Decathalon Team, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker moves to Gotham post bite, Pre-Civil War (Marvel), Precious Peter Parker, Spider-sense, Trans Character, Trans Tim Drake, meta-humans - Freeform, spider-man au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-07-15 06:11:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16057166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeOffendedShadows/pseuds/WeOffendedShadows
Summary: Peter hadn't expected a hall like this; he had stood in Wayne Manor, but the depth and breath of the place never felt overwhelming, not even on the first visit, just after Uncle Ben’s murder.-Peter Parker returns to New York city three and half years since moving to Gotham. For a quiz bowl event of sorts. His former friends aren't the only ones who notice his arrival





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This plot bunny bit me early and hasn't let go, so I'm finally putting it all together: a fusion of DC Comics & Marvel Cinematic Universe.
> 
> I am so so sorry, but enjoy.

Peter hadn't expected a hall like this; he had stood in Wayne Manor, but the depth and breath of the place never felt overwhelming, not even on the first visit, just after Uncle Ben’s murder. 

But here, standing in the massive hall of the Midtown of Science and Technology for what amounted to pretty much a pub night quiz bowl for nerds, he felt overwhelmed by the columns and ornamental designs etched into the stone. The entire building expressed a sense of elevated worth, that here within these fine walls, where New York housed its greatest hope for the future, here is something worth worshiping. A church of science, where devotion came with intellectual inquiry.

Not that was actually the intention, but he felt that way. 

The crowd swarmed around him, his team already moving to their table further in. The air vibrated to a frequency he couldn't name. It buzzed with a tinny sound; he could get lost in it, if he let himself fall. He could be swallowed whole by this leviathan of a group and washed away. 

The air was too light. Each breathe more empty than the previous ones. His hand shook; a teammate took his bag, leaving him standing in a crowd. He lied to them, okay he said, and even promised it’d be fine. 

Really, he would be. Just waiting to find out where to go, no big deal.

Even Tim believed him, or at least let him get away for a bit. 

There are moments, he found, that it was easy to get away from everyone in a crowd. Not like taken over or anything, but being alone was entirely possibly even when there were too many people around, overwhelming you. 

He thought he could find that here, now. He thought I’d be easy. But his breathes weren’t even or steady, and his heart pounded, and Gods above, the world sang too loudly. The voices stepped into his mind, swirling around whatever he could hold onto, until his next thought didn’t meet up with his last. Each syllable clawed at his vision until what he saw, while reasonable and real and truth, ached in a way he lacked a word for, or a paragraph, or an essay. 

Peter didn’t move. He wanted to, really, there were multiple places to go, but he didn’t. He stuck to the floor as much as he did to walls or ceilings, only this had nothing to do with his powers [his curse, his mind reminded himself in a tone that told him he was an idiot for thinking it].

“Peter?”a voice sliced through the fog of the crowd and Peter turned around to find the voice, see if they were calling for him or another Peter. The mop of hair was unmissable, having seen it nearly weekly since he moved. 

“Ned?” He said, dry and empty. 

“Pete?” the voice repeated, and Peter caught it firmly in the air, enough to turn to face from where it came. 

Standing off to his left side within a group of like-dressed students, stood Ned Leeds, his best friend for years, grinning as if Christmas had come early. In a way, it had; Peter had visited Ned every Christmas and summer break, except the most recent summer, as they was spent with the Waynes and their ridiculous ideas of fun and exercise. Not lonely or alone, as the sons of Bruce Wayne swarmed to the manor out of the woodwork, a summer of drills and tactics and strategies was not Peter’s idea of fun. 

Ned hadn’t moved, and neither had Peter, not yet at least. It seemed too good. An anchor within this place. But as a smile grew on Peter’s face, so did Ned take one step, then more, then he stood in front of him, wrapping him a hug that would have bruised a rib or two on regular human. 

Peter certainly didn’t fit that category any more. 

The cacophony of the world died down, leaving Peter with just the soft and gentle words of his best friend, his first friend, being whispered into his neck. He wrapped his arms around him and held him as tight as he dared, anchoring himself even more. 

“It’s so good to see you,” Peter said. 

“Why didn’t you tell me you’d be here?” Ned asked.

“Honestly? I forgot you went to Midtown.” Ned pulled back and raised an eyebrow at him. “What? It’s not like we ever talked about school or anything and-”

“Gonna introduce us to your boyfriend, Leeds?” A voice cut through the calm, one Peter recognized despite not wanting to. Flash Thompson was here as well, and a quick glance with the purpose of paying attention to faces and recalling names read that other people he knew were present as well: Betty Brant, Abe Brown, Charles Murphy, Cindy Moon, Sally Avril, and -

Ned stepped away and turned to look at the newcomer. Peter followed his gaze and felt nothing but shame for his faulty memory, because Gods above, how could he forget her. 

“Fuck off, Flash,” Michelle Jones said. “You throw money around enough, you’d think the trash that hang off your arms would satisfy you and your … shortcomings, but clearly the envy is bleeding through. Trying to tell us something.” Not a question, but a truth laced in anger and distain. 

She had stepped forward, in between Ned and Flash, her attention on the former and then Peter. Michelle hadn’t changed since his freshmen year, well, except to refine and grow into herself. She stood taller than him, and wore a leather jacket underneath their school blazer. Hair that could have been wild and tangle was tamed enough to show some restraint and care, but nothing over the top. A rich and warm shade, elegant without blaring or harsh make-up. 

Michelle Jones was refinement. Her walk parted the sea of students around her, not that they looked at her, and her gaze was somewhere between a bored glare and a furious stare. Her voice had this simple and clean quality to it, unblemished by the smog he had grown accustomed to in Gotham. Peter fought to keep his jaw from dropping, even slightly. 

The world spun and time continued, but for those moments standing with Ned and watching Michelle Jones approach and stop in front of them, the dissonant symphony of students within the hall didn’t bother him. 

“Parker!” Tim shouted. 

And chaos resumed, crashing into him. He turned to look back to the crowd at the sophomore jumping slightly and waving his hand. When Peter looked back, Ned had already joined his team, though he gave a look back at him.

Michelle did too.

Peter turned away and headed to his classmates, and his friend, for this stupid quiz bowl, allowing himself to be swallowed whole by the crowd and consumed in the anxiety of competition. 

It was too easy to ignore the undercurrent within those feelings, a tension on a thin web. One that shouldn’t be there, but easily forgotten due to more pressing matters.

*(*(*(*(*(*(*(*

“What the fuck?” Flash said. Anyone else, Ned was sure he’d punch them, even just in the shoulders. But this was MJ they were talking about, and the no-fucks-given mentality did not extend to non-violence. 

“Grow up, Flash,” MJ said. “I thought we were past this whole homophobic mentality of yours.” Ned didn’t look at either of them, but his smile at least acknowledged how awesome she was. 

“Ain’t nothing bout that,” Flash replied. He glared at Ned. “Loser acts like that towards the competition, and-”

“He went to Midtown,” Ned said, “When we were freshmen.” Defending Peter was second nature. No one else did. 

“Huh?” 

“He had to move after that field trip to Oscorp,” Ned continued. “Something bout an opportunity for his aunt. We kept in touch.”

“He good?” Cindy asked. “Like, should we be worried?”

“Umm,” Ned didn’t have an answer. The Peter he knew, almost four years ago, surpassed most of their teachers regarding physics and mathematics in general. Peter of Gotham City? He hadn’t changed was the best answer he could think of, but it seemed so empty. 

“Parker kills in any maths,” MJ said. She had a notebook out, relaxed and calm. She always was. “So I expect Ned and Abe to pick up our slack. Review the notecards I left you.”

“What cards?” Abe asked. 

 

“Check you bags,” she replied, “I updated some of the equations so you can’t just use what you knew from the previous ones.”

Ned would have laughed, wanted to really, but damn that was creepy. MJ owned her throne as their captain, revelled in it. Midtown had been undefeated since she took over at the end of their sophomore year; her methods, while tyrannical, was tempered with this strange sense of helpful insanity and pressure that worked well for the numerous personalities within their team. 

“Right,” Abe nodded, “well, then, we should-”

“Head over to our table,” Cindy finished and took a step back. 

MJ smirked at them, and most of the team scattered. Including Flash, though he attempted to glare down their captain. Failed, but a pitiful glare nonetheless. 

Ned didn’t move. MJ looked over at him, the smile slipping from her face. The crowd within the hall was dispersing, and only a few stragglers were remaining, watching everyone. Like MJ did. “Should we be worried?” she asked softly. 

“I won't be distracted, I promise, and-”

“Not that, nerd,” she looked at him, and Ned saw a brief flicker of something as she stared. “I mean about Peter, is he-”

Ned didn’t want to tell her just how smart Peter was; fear about something he couldn’t control was never a good thing. She taught him that. But that didn’t change the truth.

“Damn,” MJ said. 

“But he sucks at literature and everything else, so I wouldn’t worry about that too much,” he replied. He tried to offer a smile, but when she didn’t return it, he dropped his own. “You’re going to anyways.”

“I’ll come up with some stuff,” she looked back at her book. “Head on it, I’ll be in there.”

“Eventually?” 

“Eventually.”

Ned gave her a soft smile. He wanted to reach out and comfort her more, but MJ never had been one for physical comfort. The space she kept between people was hard as stone most days. Even harder when things grew difficult. 

For now, he would just be thankful that his best friend was around and they would win against some of the smartest schools in the country.


	2. Too pure for this world

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anyone else, she’d be embarrassed. But shame was not an emotion she knew (not that she knew any well really), so Michelle did the first thing that popped into her mind.
> 
> She smirked at him, a soft and kind smirk. He smiled back, and her pulse popped slightly - a problem for another day. 
> 
> Michelle winked. Peter Parker blushed.
> 
> Thus the tie broken.

Four rounds, ten questions each. Then the head-to-head competition in a sweet sixteen style match. What the ever living frick?

“If you are going to swear,” Stephanie said, her face buried in her arms, “then do it properly.”

“Swearing is wrong,” Tim replied, but smiled at her nonetheless. “And I didn’t say anything out loud, so how’d you-

“And so is what you’re doing.” She lifted her head and glared at him, blonde curls failing to hide her glare. 

“Tim a pain again?” Peter said, taking his seat in between him and Stephanie. He looked tiny in the Gotham Academy blazer, which said more about Peter than it did the school. He looked small in everything. 

Jerk.

“Back on topic-” Tim started.

“There was a topic in your rant?” Stephanie asked.

He ignored her. “This whole format is terrible. How can we expect to show off if we have to sit in the crowd and give answers like everyone else?”

“We’re not.” She sat up as if loathing the idea of sitting straight or awake. 

“Then what’s the point?” 

“That’s my question,” Peter said. 

“You quiet,” Tim glared at the only slightly taller boy. “You are here because you went to Midtown in a previous life and as such hold some tactical knowledge regarding our competition.”

“And hazing,” Stephanie added.

“And hazing. Deal with it Spidey.” Peter’s soft smile turned into a glare. 

Stephanie punched him. “Hey,” Tim yelped. He could have jumped out of his chair and made it more dramatic than it needed to be, but they were in a place, and places were not made for such things. “What gives?”

 

“Tim,” she drew out his name. Her eyes darted back and forth, scanning the crowd. Too many people in a hall meant to hold half the amount, and the acoustics were horrendous to listen in on any conversation, even one a few feet away. He knew better than to reveal privileged information like that. He was who he was after all, reverse ward of Bruce Wayne, and that meant many secrets of many people. 

No matter how terrible they were at keeping them. 

“Do I really have to be here?” Peter asked.

Stephanie leaned into him, bouncing slightly off his lanky frame, and then punched his shoulder. Hard.

Peter’s flinch was a breathe late.

“Dumbass,” she said. “Yeah, you need to be normal.”

“I am-”

“A perfectly normal human being whom has human emotions and needs to express them,” Tim finished, leveling the best glare he could mimic. A Bruce-glare. Not a Batman-glare, because they were in a place. 

Tim wasn’t very good at it, not like Dick could do (with the voice, too), but the point was made. “You can’t keep just,” he waved his hand around, but kept looking at Peter. “You need a normal life.”

“We all do,” Stephanie said. 

“I know that, I just…” Peter slouched, crossing his arms on the table and planting his face on them.

Stephanie reached out to touch him, but paused. Tim didn’t hesitate. He brushed his shoulders once then settled his hand. Peter didn’t flinch. 

His “cousin” was unique, a meta whom barely anyone understood just how his abilities worked; no amount of medical procedures or experiments could tell reveal any explanation. A single bite from a metagenic spider had altered his body beyond what current science could tell, and that was coming from some of the greatest minds in the world, masked or otherwise. 

Besides the powers, it had left him with a disphora that Tim emphasized with, though not really similar at all. Peter Parker didn’t feel like a human any more. His super-anxiety prevented that. His natural clinginess prevented that. His strength and agility prevented that. 

Didn’t stop any of them from trying to help. 

Since the death of his uncle, just after Tim invited himself over permanently and decided he needed to be Robin to make sure Bruce didn’t kill himself, the cinnamon roll who could kill you, every member of the Bat-family went out of their way to ensure Peter lived as normal as possible, despite his meta-nature. Peter, a true cinnamon roll too pure for the world, was a good person. Like, naturally and originally a good person. Dude took a beating, a serious beating, to make sure another student at Gotham Academy. He gave up his food, which he totally needed to survive that damn carb-absorbing asshole, to anyone who might have forgotten theirs. He offered to help before being asked. 

Only other person he knew like that Dick, but Dick was a sinnamon roll, so he didn’t count. 

Tim had made it his mission to make the meta who might be able to go a round with the Man of Steel and live feel as normal as possible. Stephanie only fought him until he bought her a pumpkin spice latte. Babs was on board, which meant Dick was too. Alfred didn’t question it. And Bruce just smiled, not a real full smile but a Bruce-is-content-and-isn’t-going-to-argue smile, so Tim assumed that he received approval. 

“Did you get to see Ned?” Tim asked. He barely spoke.

Peter nodded.

“That’s good right?” Another nod. “Then why the-”

“This doesn’t feel right,” Peter muttered. “Like, something is off, and I can’t place it, where it is or when its gonna happen or how, but I know that something is off, cause my hands want to shake and my legs won’t stop bouncing-”   
“You didn’t leave the oven on,” Stephanie said. She had pulled out her phone and started texting away. 

“Huh?” Peter sat up.

“May said so,” she continued. “And told me to tell you to stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“Being you,” Tim said.

“Right,” Stephanie added, “so stop the sulking, enjoy being moderately close to a definition of normal, and sneak out with us to find the tallest building we can climb.”

Peter groaned and sat up. “I’m not carrying you.”

“But it's so easy for you,” Stephanie whined. “And I’m lazy.”

“Yes you are,” Tim said. “We love you despite it.” 

The smile on Peter’s face was small, a weak and simple thing, but for Tim, it held the promise that the kid (who was older than him) was gonna be better. 

Even if he did almost faceplant back onto the table. 

*(*(*(*(*(*(*(*

Michelle Jones observed. A simple sentence but within its grammatically correct boundaries, a world existed beyond the comprehension of others. 

A world she found no desire to extend to others. Being alone was safe. Being alone meant no one could hurt her. 

She learned that. Again.

That did not stop some people from sneaking their way in. Ned Leeds had wormed his way in with gummy bears and legos. How, Michelle hadn’t figured out exactly, but she was working on filling in the holes to prevent further invasion.

This event, ostentatious beyond her sensibilities, housed thirty teams of decathlon-like organizations, whose members’ quantifiable intelligences numbered above genius, in a poor attempt to identify the best quiz-bowl group.

Sadly, decathlon team was the only sport-like team she could handle, thus she found herself on it in her freshman year. Somehow, when Liz Allen left, Michelle was promoted to captain. Thus more people attempting to worm her way into her world. Some trying harder than others - there was one almost success. 

She hated it.

Sitting at their table, answering question after question in a timed manner, Michelle Jones’ attention was more focused on the large mass of people. Well, one specifically. 

Two in front, three to the left, Gotham Academy’s team scored another point, perfect in their answers thus far. In terms of competition, she knew she should be aware. That wasn’t why she focused on them. 

Peter Parker should have been a member of Midtown’s team, he was a freshman the same time as her. While the Gotham Academy team had been scoring equally as well as hers, the single member drew her attention.

He didn’t look like much, though watching him move told her something was just off in his gait and pace. He was shorter than most of his teammates, except one boy, though only barely, and he looked like he could use a couple of meals from this distance. But the tightness he carried himself with, both in the hall and walking to his seat, that strength did not belong on an eighteen year old. 

He sat stiff or so relaxed she thought he was asleep. Except whenever there was science based question. The team would defer to him, and he’d answer without turning his head or looking up from the table. When the speaker near their table flared, he jerked away. Hard. He held everyone at a distance, and two other students acted as bodyguards, making sure no one else came close to him. 

One, a short thin masculine person whom she was fairly (73%) certain was wearing a binder, touched him without care; the other, blonde and slight, proceeded with more caution but didn’t let that stop her from offering comfort. When the room got loud, they slid closer, a bit of pressure or a slight brush, and Peter Parker’s tension lessened. When a proctor got too close, they blocked him in, ensuring no one touched him.

The actions made sense, on some level. The reasoning behind those actions, however, she had yet to determine. Too many possible answers. Not enough information known. 

Michelle gave an answer, though she didn’t really know the question being asked as her attention was one the strangest person in this room. It was right, but the words she said to the question she heard didn’t matter. 

But Peter Parker wasn’t the only person her attention settled on as the questions rolled in and points scored. 

Harry Osborn sat behind Midtown, three back, five to the right. She felt his gaze on her, and her alone. He transferred away her junior year to be closer to his father. An excuse. A good one at that. She didn’t fault him for the lie. 

“Nice,” Ned said, bumping his shoulder against hers. Michelle blinked away the train of thought and turned her attention to her only friend. 

“Thanks,” she replied, though didn’t know exactly for what. 

Ned smirked at her, and slid a bag of gummy bears to her. Unopened. She didn’t take it. 

Michelle looked up to the Gotham Academy team. Another question asked, and time started. Her team conferred, but theirs didn’t. Peter Parker simply slid a piece of paper over. He hadn’t looked at it as he wrote.

She knew it was right without question. 

Tied. Midtown Academy Science and Technology tied with Gotham Academy, currently, leading the scoreboard. 

Two more rounds today, and hopefully, her team would be in the sweet sixteen. Then three lightning rounds to the championship, and then another trophy.

Joy.

Michelle spun a pencil under the table. The amount of people in crisis were soul-crushing, just asking to be drawn. She committed as many as she could to memory, splitting her attention in three ways.

So much to learn, so little time.

She stared at Gotham Academy’s table, watching them. There was a distance between Peter Parker and his friends and the rest of the group (four others whom dissolved into the masses), a manufactured one that neither side seemed to try to fix, though they worked better together than her team did with Eugene. Or Harry for that matter. 

The stiffness returned to Peter Parker’s frame, and this time he sat up fully. He scanned the room in front of him, a single glance barely taking in anything. He turned around and looked right at her. 

He was, for lack of a better term, cute. A wide face on a small frame, that burgundy blazer sitting uncomfortably on his shoulders. Skin smooth and clean, a paleness that could only come from living in the fog and cloud-covered city of perpetual night. 

He caught her staring. 

Anyone else, she’d be embarrassed. But shame was not an emotion she knew (not that she knew any well really), so Michelle did the first thing that popped into her mind.

She smirked at him, a soft and kind smirk. He smiled back, and her pulse popped slightly - a problem for another day. 

Michelle winked. Peter Parker blushed.

Thus the tie broken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tim Drake is based off of Unpretty's Tim Drake - go read her Sorrowful and Immaculate Hearts collection. Unbelievable read that just settles with you and refuses to leave. Plus her Bruce Wayne is the closest to my personal head-canon of the man. 
> 
> There exists a plot, along with a few on shots. My other series will probably be updated this week as well (at least a 5+1 story). 
> 
> As always, read and review please.


	3. Chapter 3: Illusion of Safety

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But Michelle Jones had snuck up on him. Not only that, she did it in such a way that he felt no threat or danger, despite his hyper-awareness because of everything else at the moment. Peter knew he was overly anxious, but that didn’t stop his senses from determine that this single person was not someone to be afraid of. 
> 
> [At one point, much later in his life, Peter would realize just how dumb of statement that was. This is not that point.]

Day one of the quiz-bowl championship-facade ended with a rather loud confrontation between New York Elite and some proctors. One student, a white male who took up more space than he physically was capable of through body language and voice, created a scene about an answer that he gave. A wrong answer that apparently deserved a rather loud and obnoxious response. 

It was, without question, the worst way to end the day.

After the last question, Peter didn’t wait anyone else. He had slipped through the crowd, past everyone, and was nearly the first out of the hall. 

The pressure he felt building since he stepped into the crowded place ceased it’s near constant assault on his mind. He didn’t possess super hearing or sight, though he figured that he was on the far above normal end of the spectrum, just not superhuman. Instead, each of his senses were hardwired to take in everyone and process it, keeping him aware of the world around him. He could feel air pressure as people moved, allowing him to dodge most contact. He could catch the changing intonations and inflections of words, highlighted within his mind as things to worry about if they weren’t normal. His focus drifted from object to object, light to light, movement to movement.

Peter took it all in, and everything was important. Everything was a source of worry. 

Thirty five feet, and he was out in the main hallway. Another fifty seven, and he was through a side door. Up one flight and through a second door, and Peter stood on the mezzanine. 

Alone.

The world rang and forced itself into his mind, but at least now he had some distance. He tried to meditate, to filter and focus on what he needed, but the near constant pressure on his chest grew into a headache, a migraine. 

Had he been in Gotham, Peter would have found one of the many alleyways and climbed to the top of the tallest building around until the sounds of the city died away, and the only pressure he felt, besides the guilt at doing so, would be the wind currents around him. 

But this was New York, and the buildings, while close, kept their distance from each other and while they stretched towards the sun, the warmth tended to be a bit heavy for his tastes. 

This would do for now. He leaned forward, looking down at the crowd of students passing as waves beneath him. Their voices and presence weren’t as strong, and he felt the pressure on his chest lessen enough for him to take a normal breathe again.

Peter hadn’t felt this overwhelmed in a long time, as if a shadow was approaching from the wrong direction, slowly stepping closer and closer. His senses ran off of his feelings, and he couldn't help but feel watched. No, observed. 

“For a nerd, you sure do move fast,” Michelle Jones said.

Since being bitten by a radioactive spider and awakening his meta-genes, Peter Parker rarely was surprised. May was the only one who had consistently snuck up on him. Even Bruce had his moments caught by Peter. Didn’t stop anyone from trying. 

But Michelle Jones had snuck up on him. Not only that, she did it in such a way that he felt no threat or danger, despite his hyper-awareness because of everything else at the moment. Peter knew he was overly anxious, but that didn’t stop his senses from determine that this single person was not someone to be afraid of. 

[At one point, much later in his life, Peter would realize just how dumb of statement that was. This is not that point.]

“Holy shit.” He attempted to jump away, but ended up being more of tripping-over-his-own-feet thing. A brief thought floated through his mind that she had no idea who he was, just enough of one to keep him vertical and not hanging off the wall away from her.

“Sup,” Michelle said. She was stunning. He was stunned. By her. Specifically. Because of her looks. Which was totally was wrong to focus on, given that she led Midtown’s decathlon team, he knew she was smart. But the image before him, her, just her without anything that he could describe as make-up or alteration, drew his eyes in. Her smile held them on her face. She had a runner’s build, lean and strong. Her hair, untamed as her, probably. But assumptions were bad.

Peter only really saw her in brief glimpses. The smile she gave him, and subsequent wink, were the first time he looked at her directly; Tim wouldn’t stop harassing him because he couldn’t stop blushing. A perfectly normal response to a girl - woman, Parker, be polite - winking at you. Right?

“Um,” he said. “Hi?”

“That a question?” 

“What?” Peter replied. “I mean, no? N-no. It wasn’t.”

“Good, because I hate small talk,” Michelle said. She walked out of the doorway right next to him, keeping a foot between them, her bag another barrier. 

“Right, um….” Peter looked at her, but she didn’t respond. She simply stood there, leaning on the guardrail, more relaxed than he had been. In the whorl of chaos below, her calmness was a welcomed change. 

The silence was strange. Not that the room was actually silent, given the mass of people still filtering down below. And Peter had too many questions to focus on one specific line of inquiry, though the prominent contender was why she was hiding up here in the first place. His mouth didn’t ask that though. Instead, Peter blurted out, “have you read the recent journals coming out of CERN?”

Michelle turned to face him, slowly, without any care. She still leaned against the railing. Her response was a raised eyebrow. 

“They were just published, like, a week or two ago, and there is this massive theory about entropy, whether or not it actual is constantly increasing in a closed system, what with the-”

“You talk,” she said. Peter snapped his mouth shut. “A lot.”

“Yeah, sometimes, it’s just I’m not good at small talk, kinda like you, and at least that is somewhat interesting, so I figured-”

“But not in there.” She relaxed more, her shoulders dropping. Michelle slid the bag down to her feet, then crossed her arms in front of her. 

“Um…”

“In there, I don’t think you said a single word.”

“You,” Peter swallowed, “watched me.”

“Observed,” Michelle corrected. “All the science questions were fielded by you, except computer science that was the boy - a boy right? I’m right on that part - he gave all those, the three out of forty, which is tragic given how important the field is these days.”

“Um…”

“But you’re willing to talk to me,” she continued. “Here. Now.”

“It’s…” Peter waved his hand around. He stood, probably too stiff, but leaning would have felt wrong, mimicking her. 

“Less encompassing,” Michelle finished. He nodded, then turned away. Not just that, but he couldn’t explain the whole truth, as he barely understood anything about it. The crowd had departed, most of the schools heading back to their hotels. Tim would have texted him, and Peter was sure he had his phone in his bag, so he’d catch a ride with an Uber or Lyft later. 

“Here.” Peter looked back at her and down at her hand. She held a small box, with fidgets on each side, different types. 

“Why are you…” He looked at it and up at her.

“Too many people in a space, even this large. Most of them desperately in need of some hygiene refresher lessons. The proctors have little concern regarding personal space and don't care if they push against us as they pass, checking to make sure we don’t cheat. You broke four pens, including a metal fountain one, the ink getting on a proctor whom hovered to much.”

“How’d you-”

“You need something to do with your hands. This is for that.” She offered the box-thing again. 

Peter smiled and reach out for it, his fingertips brushing her hand. She didn’t flinch or jerk away. He tilted his head, holding the fidget device above her palm. 

A normal human hand would shake. Peter didn’t. He held her gaze.

Michelle Jones was a strange person. He had met strange before, including a few who deserved to be in Arkham because of their strangeness. It wasn’t like this. 

The pressure of everything, the constant nervousness rushing through him, warning him of something watching him, possibly. That sensation, while it didn’t disappear, relaxed with a sigh of a heavy-burden no longer on his chest. 

“Thank you,” he whispered. She nodded and drew her hand away. She slipped it into her jean pockets. 

“You’re too smart to lose because of stupid things like people.”

“I’m people.”

“No, you’re Peter Parker.”

“And you’re Michelle Jones.”

The smirk slid into a smile. “MJ.”

“Excuse me?”

“My friends call me MJ.”

“You want to be friends with me?” 

“Someone who is connected to the Wayne family in a positive manner is never a bad thing to have,” MJ replied. Her eyes said it was a joke, sarcasm so rich and full the nuances were almost lost on him. 

“I don’t think you-”

“I observe things, Parker,” MJ said. She bent slightly to pick up her bag, turning away from him. With a shrug, she placed it on her shoulders and adjusted it for comfort only, not appearance. 

“I noticed.”

“Good. Now Ned can stop bothering me.”

MJ walked away without another word, leaving Peter on the mezzanine holding the fidget device. 

The pressure on his chest didn’t return in full. Not when he finally left. Not when he left the building to join his teammates and friends as they waited for the brackets to be settled. Not when he decided to climb out the window of their hotel and scale to the roof to watch the moonrise. 

(*(*(*(*(*(*(

Static fizzled as he typed away on a small keyboard, barely large enough for his meaty fingers. His attention wasn’t on the words and symbols he inputted, but the twelve inch screen with a half-dozen videos running. The network of Midtown was surprisingly lax for such tech school, though maybe that was on purpose. Get these kids pushing boundaries. Probably part of the military connection to the school. 

No sign yet. A good thing, he supposed, but really, they weren't expecting a clear signal of their target at all. The information was sparse, and while the tracers had yet to fail, they required an active meta. 

No. this was a waiting game. 

A buzz. He tapped the bug in his ear. “Sir?”

“Report.”

“Twenty three tracers in place, all active and recording biometrics of all humanoids within the building. Agent Six has gained access to the building through provided credentials.”

“Activity.”

“Negative. But that was expected. Agent Two and Five have-”

“Video.”

“Uploading as recording, audio too, though that will require scrubbing to determine specifics.” He typed a few more symbols and the twelve-inch screen flashed, darkening for a moment before a pure green screen over too. White and black symbols flickered across it, nearly too fast for him to catch.

Nearly. 

“Agent One has requested another two squad members,” he said. His neck itched horrible, but to pick at the spot would simple scratch at a scab. 

“Denied. Additional support is unavailable at the moment.” The reason hung in the air. Unsanctioned and off books and plausible deniability. 

“Current observational patterns require seventeen hour shifts. Additional members would-”

“Denied, Agent Three.” A sharp beep and a pinch of heat. Too far. He pushed to far.

“Understood.” He started typing again. “Agent Four has reported back, returning from third reconnaissance with additional information presented in hourly briefing gamma.”

“Received and additional orders sent.”

“Being?”

“Continue observations, plan for extraction. Keep presence unknown. Zero contact with target until extraction. Failure results in known effects.”

“Understood. Civilians?”

“Civilian casualties expected. Continued as Plan Alpha indicates.”

“Understood.”

The static replaced the voice. Hung up on. Again. Typical. The cruelty within the general, however, made him shiver.

Oh well. Not his call. He typed out the orders and sent them to the five others in their squad. Proceed as planned. Further contact wasn’t needed, and he was left in near silence in the cocoon of cables and screens he built himself in the heart of the building, readying for the moment when the illusion of safety was shattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, another week, another chapter. This one seems to flow easier than the other stories - but they are being worked on. So please, enjoy and review. 
> 
> Any requests for other characters in this Combined universe, please leave it here as well.


	4. Tightrope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Peter Parker needs fresh air to clear his head & Harry Osborn, well, is Harry Osborn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not sorry for how I wrote Harry Osborn here, though I still need to find his voice proper. 
> 
> Not my favorite chapter, but one I needed; so hopefully the next one will come a lot quicker. More quiz-bowl stuff & action soon. More DC & Marvel character interactions. 
> 
> Thanks for the patience, and please leave any reviews (comments, suggestions, questions, wise remarks). All are appreciated.

Peter stood on the edge of the roof, his toes and balls of his feet hanging over the edge. The stone beneath his bare heels stole whatever warmth he might have had in the October night. He had pajama pants on, a Hello!Kitty set. A gift from Dick last winter, a joke but not joke, and he has worn them ever since, even during the summer. 

Here, in New York, on a cloudy and windy October night, Peter stood on the edge of a building over thirty stories tall. A locked door should have stopped him from finding his way up this high, but there were other means, and Peter was good at finding them.

He stopped counting after he climbed up ten from his room. Didn’t seem important.

Tim and Steph knew he was here, would cover for him if their teacher ever actually asked about any of them. For the moment, he was allowed the peace of the city, stars and moon hidden away by the clouds, sounds absorbed by the distance. He stood alone at the edge of a world: nothing but space and freedom before him and solidity behind.

Peter held his arms out the side, the wind buffeting him from multiple directs.

New York City was such a strange place. Gotham had recovered from its earthquake, mostly, and rebuilt upward, kinda, but never as high as this, never as quiet as this - he learned a long time ago that the quiet was a terrible thing. Metropolis stretched further to the sky, but it was so bright and lit that he could barely stand it at night. New York found a peaceful middle ground. 

Near the horizon, standing above a few other buildings, Peter watched the Avenger’s tower. No lights were on, the massive ‘A’ on its front dull in the night. Were any even in the place? Tony Stark had taken residence within it, but no one had seen him come or go recently, not even in the suit. 

The lack of the anonymity confused Peter. He had been taught the importance of the mask, not so much hiding behind it as to use it as a symbol, to be more than just a person in an outfit whom could be killed and forgotten. 

The mask mattered. 

Did the person underneath matter?

Peter stood on the edge of hotel roof, toes and balls of his feet hanging over the edge, arms stretched out. The world swam around him. 

The competition had been going well. Gotham Academy found itself in the head-to-head rounds, two more days of fun. Hopefully, this path led them to the final match, most likely against Midtown School of Technology and Science. The team celebrated in one of their hotel rooms, not because of the success, but because they were teenagers and didn’t really need an excuse to party. Peter begged off. 

He knew he came off as difficult and distant, having kept his head down on the table wherever they sat and answered the questions for whatever topic. He did his part, science answers easily given with a mumble or mutter to Tim or Steph, and the rest of the team left him alone. 

Too loud. Too bright. Too, well, too much. Everything hereswam around and over him, pulling him deeper and deeper into the depth of this strange ocean of people. A tide that just tore him from his thoughts, from himself, leaving only a shell. 

New York wasn’t bad. But Midtown? Peter didn’t know about that.

There were some good things. He had been able to skip lunch with the team to go find Ned, spend an hour with him and calmness. An eye, one of a few actually, within the hurricane of the competition. Soft and quiet at a coffee shop. 

How was it a coffee shop on the crowded streets of New York city, where cars roared and people shouted every minute, brought more ease than a quiet room of smart people? 

Tim and Steph helped, they always did. He wouldn’t have even gone without them. He could, almost, relax with them surrounding him, a pressure on his leg or arm. Their sheer presence kept the world at bay. Mostly.

Course, there were the strange parts of the whole event that didn’t match with any other experience.

Like the captain of Midtown’s team. He questioned Ned about her, the enigmatic Michelle Jones a.k.a MJ, whatever his best friend knew. No one has approached him first. In fact, people usually stayed away from the strange orphan kid, even though it was a common enough descriptor at Gotham. He heard their words whispered to each other but as loud as if it was to him. He knew he didn't move right sometimes - it was too easy to forget how he was supposed to act. He knew he had strange reactions that most people couldn’t recognize or explain. 

MJ gave him none of that. One meeting, and Peter had been left standing confused as he’d ever been, holding a fidget [He hadn’t broken it. Didn’t plan to either].

Confusing woman for another time. Peaceful, noisy quiet time now, he told himself. 

A noisy quiet was so strange. Peter closed his eyes, a gust of wind slamming against him for a moment. He wavered back and forth with no fear of falling. Down was always towards his heels. No matter which direction that may have been.

Peter smirked and turned to walk the edge of the edge of the roof, arms out to act as a balance. He wobbled, not because he would fall, but more for the shock of the fear that came with the chance of a fall. His heart sped up and the world tightened around him; everything became clear and bright in the poorly lit city of skyscrapers. 

Dick could walk a tightrope without cheating, an ease that Peter never really got, not that he gave up trying. When down was down except when it wasn’t, tightrope walking was a pipe dream. Even if he couldn’t fall.

Probably why Bruce made him practice it every goddamn day. 

He walked the perimeter, carefully flipping over the cameras’ view and staying in the shadow. A few times he bent over, almost falling over to the non-infinite sky to his left and the harsh hotel roof to his right, but down was down. Until it decided to change again.

In less than four hours, he was to be clear headed and ready to win for the honor and glory of Gotham. In four hours, he was to be a team member.

He didn’t know how he could any of that.

Peter walked the perimeter again, backwards this time, still flipping over the blindspots. The third one he missed his landing, toes slipping because they weren’t made to grip concrete, and fell down to the street. 

Or would have, had down been down. Except down was no longer down, not for Peter. Down had become the direction towards the hotel wall. He flipped a few times, twisting in the air to get his feet under him, and touched down on the wall. 

Gravity still held its power against him. Down just didn’t agree any more.

Peter felt the tug that the earth always had when he wasn’t falling in the “proper” direction. Couldn’t stand on the wall as if it were the ground. Much easier to lie against it. He found that the easiest way around gravity’s horrible nature was to spider crawl along the wall. 

With the same effort it took to walk, Peter crawled up two stories, avoiding the few windows he passed. Not that anyone would be awake at this time. Sans mask and costume, he was just an average climber scaling the walls of his hotel. In Hello!Kitty pajama pants. Without any equipment.

As one would do.

Completely and utterly normal.

Peter reached the top and pulled himself straight up with one hand, releasing the wall without a thought. Down became down again, and gravity pulled him properly, but the force of the pull granted him enough power to yeet himself over the edge. 

Sunlight threatened the horizon, and the morning would follow. In less than four hours, the competition would begin again. 

Maybe when it was over, the damn tension in his shoulders would finally disappear, a tiny pressure that pulsed with each step taken on the edge of something far above him and where a far greater danger waited for him. 

Or, you know, maybe not. That was his type of luck. 

(*(*(*(*(*(

The world looked so strange these days. Harry Osborn walked the corridors of Midtown, trying his hardest to remember just what about this school held his attention for so long. No teacher kept his mind engaged; no event or project fascinated him. Harry found one person in the entire school interesting enough to talk to, to get to know, to fall in love with. 

He wanted so badly to have the traditional high school experience. He tried so hard to fit in. But the son of a global empire stood out in the crowd no matter what he did, even in a school of geniuses. He transferred in during the end of his sophomore year and found himself alone, friendless and bored. Nothing interested him or challenged him. Teachers droned on about topics he studied on his own. Classmates rambled on and on about some stupid social media meme or event that had no purpose in any real life. Damn place treated him like an ordinary student. Didn’t they know who he was?

Harry came to Midtown to avoid being noticed and treated differently, at least in that moment. He got what he wanted. He hated it.

But a simple error in scheduling, a moment when he decided to skip class and just wander, brought Harry to where he stood now: the library. The shadow of the massive halls of books and magazines, rivaling any state college, which could easily be replaced by the hordes of academic articles and the winding power of the internet, towered over the rest of the school, enveloping it in the truth of knowledge: present for those who were willing to grab it for themselves. 

Harry pushed open the doors to the darken and empty space. Too early for any one to be in, too early for another person to be awake and working or learning. 

Though he stumbled upon the library that day, almost a year ago, Harry entered with a grace befitting an heir of an empire. He entered expecting to find her sitting at a table, travel mug still filled with warm tea, and an well-worn book in hand.

She did not disappoint.

Traditional beauty was such a strange term, and while Harry had not felt himself drawn to those who did not fit the model-esque form, Michelle Jones became the one exception to his decision. Such an exotic tone to her skin, coffee with a hint of milk, just as soft and welcoming. Her hair never out of place, even with the purposeful lack of effort. Clean and smooth, a harsh demeanor couple with hard words and harder actions. A queen amongst peasants, worthy of what only a king could give her. 

Took nearly all of his junior year to conquer her, to claim her, but Harry always got what he wanted. 

She sat at a table, back towards him, in the same spot he first met her, actually met her, that day. Fate didn’t exist, and neither did Luck. Harry made the world what he wanted. He half expected her not to be here, but habit Michelle did not break. Every day at Midtown, he could find her, a rotation of hiding spots that never seemed to change. She wanted to be found. 

“Fuck off, Harry,” she said without looking back at him. 

He smiled and headed towards her. Same words as before. Nothing had changed. 

“Good to see you, princess,” he said. 

“In the vain attempt that you’d listen, I’m going to repeat myself,” she continued and turned a page, “fuck off.”

“Is that anyway to treat-”

Michelle slammed the book down on the table. She didn’t turn to look at him though. 

He smirked at her false anger, the bravado of someone who wrongly believed they were wronged. He had done nothing that wasn’t expected of him; she’d understand that. “You were amazing this week.” He continued into the library, steps measured and equal, giving her time to accept him again. “Not only has Midtown thrived under your rule, but the team itself is better than I expected. I tried to replicate it at NYE, but the pickings were rather slim. Not as slim as Midtown, but a task befitting a true leader. But you did far more with far less.”

She heard his footsteps behind him, and he watched her shoulders tighten in anticipation of his touch. 

“You even got the flip to-”

Michelle stood up and swung at him. Hard. 

Harry buckled under the assault, his knees bending and the world turning bright and white for a split second. When he opened his eyes - when did he close them - he saw the ground. He held himself up, barely. His arms shook, and he felt his throat buckle in the threat of vomiting. 

Michelle’s combat boots settled in his line of vision, right in front of him. He tried to push himself up, but the world spun and flashed bright again. 

Fuck, did she loosen a tooth?

He growled and looked up to see Michelle Jones simply staring at him. He had seen this before, when she stared down a joke towards the middle of their junior year after a poorly planned practical joke on one Cindy Moon. Harry watched as that child practically buckled underneath the gaze, reduced to nothing without a single utterance. The emptiness betrayed no hint of kindness or compassion, no mercy. If Michelle were to smite him, it wouldn't be swift or painless either. His queen stood above them all, and how dare anyone threaten her or her own. 

In that moment Harry decided she would be his. Took two weeks to warm her completely to him, to worm his way into her sphere of influence. He never saw that stare again. 

Didn’t see the kid either for that matter. 

This stare never should have been aimed at him; she was his and she dared to level this dismissal towards him.

“You, you,” he spat out. The world refused to settle though. 

“I told you before to leave me alone, Osborn,” she said. No inflection or tone, almost dead. 

“You hit me.”

“I slapped you, yes.” 

A slap? She knocked him over with a slap.

“Open hand, if you must know.”

“You bitch-slapped me?” He pushed off the ground, and while the world spun a third time, he struggled to his feet. “You fucking c-”

Michelle stepped forward and pushed him in the center of his chest with a single finger. The balance Harry found shattered, and he fell back, stumbling but still standing. 

“You are not a student here” she said. Michelle turned away from him, turned her back to him. 

Harry spat out blood onto the dirty floor. She as not supposed to be angry at him. This was not as he had planned. She should have welcomed him with open arms, at the least. A kiss would have been more deserved. He needed to fix this. “If you are upset that I left, princess, I had not intended any harm. In fact, I came back to-”

She didn’t look at him. But she at least stopped walking. “To what, Harry,” she asked, “to gloat on your success you’ve found away from here? To tell us how great everything is going for you? To show off whatever girl was dumb enough to fall for you?”

He pushed off the ground again. This time, the world remained in place and nothing bright flashed. He swayed when he stood up fully, but at least his vision remained still. “Princess, that was-”

“Stop calling me-”

“Stop interrupting me!” His voice boomed over hers, through the library. The echo shook him more than than his vision did after she hit him. 

Michelle didn’t turn around. She refused to look at him. Instead, she stood with the same tense shoulders, her book held in front of her chest, staring straight forward. 

Ten feet separated them. 

When they dated, when they were in the same room together, Harry refused to have her more than an arm’s length from him. He could remember her scent invading his mind every breathe. It intoxicated him, poisoning him to what needed to be done to succeed. 

So his father had said.

“Prin…, Michelle, I did not come here to argue with you,” he said softly. 

She didn’t turn to look at him.

“I came to talk with you,” he continued.

She said nothing.

“I wanted to make sure you understood why I left Midtown.”

Why you left me, he thought he heard though he probably imagined it. 

“My father decided that I needed a larger challenge, one that was not simply based on the rigors of high school, or any school for that matter.” Harry stared at his fingers, the rings on them; they never fit right, but father said appearances mattered. He looked up to her. 

“And that involved other people?” she said. “You abandoned your team, one you helped create mind you.”

Me, unspoken again.

“Yes, well, that was the unfortunate side-effect. One I hope to repair, at least on some levels.”

Michelle finally turned around and just stared at him. No expression, no hint of an emotion. Gone the friend, the girl he knew from a year before, one who hung onto him, no clung to him, who laughed at his jokes, who uplifted him. Ten feet did not seem close enough. Harry stepped forward. She stepped back.

“And Gwen? Was that another request of your father?” she asked.

Oh, that. That was what this was about? A misunderstanding of social standing and acceptability? She was pissed about that? 

“Princess,” he moved closer to her and held his arms to his side. An offer, for her to take, but only if she was willing. Michelle Jones preferred contact, needed it, he found, but rarely instigated it herself. When she was his fully, he would approach her this same way, a soft voice and gentle touch, and she would collapse into him, hold him tight. A bit clingy, but a sign of her devotion to him. “I told you, he wouldn’t understand. You were-”

She stepped back. 

“You are important to me, Princess,” Harry continued speaking, “and I can make him understand. See you as I do.”

She huffed out a heavy breath, but still looked at him. Stared at him. 

Harry stepped closer. She stepped back again. “If this is about prom, I already apologized about that.”

“Yes, a brief single card with an explanation of why I shouldn’t take your complete and utter dismissal as just that.”

“My father-”

“Is not the one who abandoned me,” Michelle said. 

“I told you to stop that,” Harry said. He stared back at her and finally dropped his arms. “My father required me. What else was I to do? Ignore him?”

Michelle tilted her head. 

“Whatever you may believe about my life, know that I do care for you, Princess. I want you. Perhaps, leaving you the night of prom was not the best of moves, I see that now, but I am back, and would gladly welcome you by my side again.”

“And yet, that is exactly where I refuse to be,” she said, then turned around; turned away from him. “Goodbye, Harry.”

“Don’t you-” He stepped forward to grab her, to close the space between them, but Michelle whipped back around and leveled that same glare from before, but it felt worse. He stopped cold and swallowed nothing. 

“Fuck off, Osborn, she said, without any inflection or emotion. 

“You were ne-”

“I said fuck off,” MIchelle continued. “You made your choice. Respect mine.”

Instead of walking away, she walked towards him. A hug perhaps. Yes, that is what she was going to give him. Her words may say no, but her body clearly says yes. Maybe not now, but Harry knew he started the path to acquiring her again. He had made his argument, though not as clearly as he’d like. But Michelle had always been great at reading between the lines, finding the message buried underneath the facade. She saw what he was trying to say, his exotic queen-to-be, and would be his once again. 

Michelle Jones didn’t look at him as she passed by and then out the door.


End file.
